


collapse

by crimsonxflowers



Category: Boardwalk Empire
Genre: Additional Warnings Apply, Angst, M/M, warnings for slurs and panic attacks/dissociation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-12
Updated: 2016-03-12
Packaged: 2018-05-26 05:45:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6226288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crimsonxflowers/pseuds/crimsonxflowers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s managed to forget the details of the incident with Thompson when Charlie pounds on his office door, all thunder and fury and shouting, “I know you’re in there, open the fucking door.” [post-WHP]</p>
            </blockquote>





	collapse

**Author's Note:**

> after White Horse Pike, Meyer and Charlie talk it out. by which I mean they are emotionally repressed idiots at each other but somehow it works. kind of. 
> 
> CONTENT WARNINGS for an antisemitic slur and a panic attack followed by dissociation.

He’s managed to forget the details of the incident with Thompson when Charlie pounds on his office door, all thunder and fury and shouting, “I know you’re in there, open the fucking door.”

(He hasn’t forgotten anything. The bruises and blisters have faded, sure, but the smell of wet earth and salt is as easily remembered as the scent of burning buildings and a dusty warehouse floor. Just as easy to ignore—practice makes perfect, after all. But he doesn’t forget.)

Meyer sighs and rises from the desk, the click of the lock cutting off Charlie’s snarl of “I’ll fuckin’ kick it down if you don’t open—”

And then they’re looking at each other, _really_ looking at each other, close enough to touch, for the first time in months. Anyone else would miss how Charlie falters, the second he takes to just _look_ , before he blows past Meyer and into the office. Meyer gives himself a second, closing his eyes to steel himself as he shuts the door, before turning around to face Charlie. “Is all this really necessary?”

Charlie looks up from the tread he’s already wearing into the carpet, fingers twitching at his side. “You don’t even bother to keep me in the loop about Florida anymore, yeah, it’s fucking necessary,” he bites out, closing the distance between them in a few short strides. He stops an arms’ length away, tension radiating from every inch of him. “The fuck’s that about, huh?”

Meyer clenches his jaw, hands clasped behind his back as he looks up at Charlie’s stormy expression. “I presume Joe’s been keeping you up to date on your shipments, so I hardly see how my input is relevant,” he says stonily, watching Charlie’s face twist into a deeper scowl at his words—at the subtle reminder that they’re not together on this.

“You almost getting fucking shot isn’t relevant?!” Charlie explodes, and Meyer’s expression goes deliberately blank, his spine stiffening. They are not talking about this. Meyer is not talking about this, but before he can cut Charlie off or kick him out or do _anything_ to stop this conversation in its tracks, Charlie keeps going. “You wanna stay pissed at me, fine, but I gotta find out about this shit from _Tonino_?”

Something in Meyer twists and snaps, the thought of being something Masseria’s men _discuss_ far harder to bear than Charlie’s indignation. “Had a good laugh over it, did you?” he snarls, anger sharpening his consonants into something more suited for the back-alleys of Delancey than for Park Avenue. Rage propels him forward a step, sudden enough that Charlie takes a step back. “Salvatore’s pet kike, on his knees in Jersey while you were safe with your _famigghia_.” And it’s not even satisfying, when Charlie reels back at the name or the slur or both, and Meyer can taste the burn at the back of his throat, the acrid fury that has nowhere else to go. He can feel his fingernails cutting crescents into his palms, and only curls his fists tighter to keep from shoving Charlie—or worse.

Charlie’s jaw works for a second, like he’s recentering himself in the face of Meyer matching his anger blow for blow. It’s something that hasn’t happened since they were kids, something Meyer hasn’t let himself do in decades. “I _look_ like I’m laughin’, Meyer?” His voice is low, finally, the words deliberate, and Meyer wants to laugh that his words are so carefully chosen _now_. “I’ll kill them for this. Joe, Thompson, all of ‘em.”

Meyer stares, for a second—and he can feel the incredulous, bitter laughter that’s still clawing its way up his throat—then shakes his head minutely, swallowing the anger and locking it away right next to the sense memory of a barrel pressed to his skull, next to the words Charlie spat before he left Tampa. None of it is productive. None of it is _useful_. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t need your protection. Or did you forget?” He strides past Charlie, ignoring his stricken expression, a hand slicing through the air in a truncated dismissal as he goes. “I have business to attend to, so if you’ll excuse me…”

“Mey—” Charlie’s fingers wrap around his wrist as he brushes by him, and his grip is as tentative as his tone and it’s _unbearable_.

“ _Let go of me_.” He yanks his arm from Charlie’s grasp, reeling back til his heels hit the desk, and the open expanse of the room is at his back but he still feels cornered. He should have expected it, should have prepared for the sensation of Charlie’s fingertips against his skin, after months of distance, but it’s too much when every nerve is raw and every muscle is so rigid he can feel his shoulders shaking. His fingers curl around the edge of the wood to ground himself, to stop making his breath come in quick pants.

Charlie watches him warily, both hands outstretched placatingly. Like he thinks Meyer’s a caged animal, bound to lash out if he gets too close. Meyer squeezes his eyes shut for a moment and struggles to breathe evenly, the weight of Charlie’s gaze on him almost a physical pressure.

“I almost died. Alone. Without you.” The words come from far away, like someone’s speaking in the next room, and Meyer almost winces at the desperation in them. It takes a moment, and the widening of Charlie’s eyes, before Meyer realizes they’re his. Realizes that he’s made it real, now, by putting it to words. Even the realization is distant. “You weren’t supposed to find out.” Charlie’s brows furrow at that, but it doesn’t matter. None of it matters. It happened. He survived. It’s over.

It doesn’t matter.

“Meyer.” Charlie’s voice is back to that low deliberate tone. “You and me, we’re gonna make them pay.” His hands are on Meyer’s shoulders. Meyer’s not sure when he got close enough to do that. “No one’s splittin’ us up again.”

 _You left_ , Meyer thinks. But it’s not worth it, to say it out loud. Not when Charlie is tracing light circles against Meyer’s arms with his thumbs, when it’s helping Meyer breathe again. Not when they’re back where they belong—or getting there. He meets Charlie’s gaze and holds it, and Charlie’s palms press a little more firmly against his shoulders, and it’s not okay yet.

But it’s better.

**Author's Note:**

>  _famigghia_ \- "family" in Sicilian [or so the internet tells me]


End file.
